Matchbox
by Ahshe'sgone
Summary: Maka has this little green and faded red matchbox and Soul just might fit into it, but not really.


Well, this might have some underlying romance but, it's Soul and Maka, how can there _not _be some underlying romance?

I do not own Soul Eater. Quite obviously.

I hope you like this and enjoy!

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I can hear you from where I'm sitting, you know. You're sniffling. You're keeping the regular sneezes in. You're holding your breath and exhaling after some seconds. You probably don't have a fever so I won't worry. You never have a fever. You'd deny it if you did, but you don't.

I can see you too. I'm holding this book. You'd swear I'm reading it. But I've become good at this, see? I'm watching you. You can watch me too, only to find I'm reading my book. You think you're pretty much alone. You think I'm not really paying attention. You're sitting there, slumped, head in your hands, aggravated with yourself that you have a cold. I should inform you that keeping yourself from sneezing makes it worse. Later.

You're wearing sweatpants and a black jacket. It goes well with your hair, but I won't tell you that. We have to go on a mission tomorrow and your cool attitude is sliding off you. You let your head fall on your arm resting on the table. The room is dim and I can't see you well. You're so far away and no matter how much I read, I won't learn anything about you.

I read a lot. You like to point it out. No matter how much I read, I won't learn how to write. And if I do, I won't be able to write you. I'm not able to read you. If I learn how to draw, I won't make a convincing portrait of you. I couldn't even paint your shadow on the wall and make it look like you. Or feel like you. Or have any similarity to you. You escape me. Both you and your black shadow. It's twisted; it's still you.

Your hair has gravitated to one side. You look small. It's because I'm in the other end of the room. I made you hot tea and mixed honey in too, in a silent attempt to fix your gruff voice.

You were drunk once and said that you like honey because it looks like my hair. I didn't believe you but I kept it. It's in a fancy matchbox on the shelf above my bed. I keep all the stuff you say there. You haven't said much that I need to put away. You can still say much more, you know. Memories occupy no space. The little box will be forever empty, or forever full, but there will always be room for more. Sometimes I wake up at night and you're in deep sleep. I open it and your voice resonates in my ears, clear and honest and maybe a little sweeter but that's because I tend to sweeten my memories of you. You gave me the matchbox too, remember? It was from your parents' house. You didn't want it and I did.

You thanked me and tiredly smiled when I handed you the hot offering of my cowardice. It's the last time, Soul. I decided. When the mission's over tomorrow, you get to open the box with me and listen to yourself.

You've said stupid things, like how you're going to protect me. Hell, you're an offensive weapon. You're not a shield. I'm protecting you too. You're hearing this tomorrow. You've been absent-minded. You've sang songs in my presence and I hadn't heard them before. Now I know each verse. I even have the sound of my sheets rustling stored away in my little container, from when you came to sleep in my bed that night because it was winter and we were fourteen. I'll put your sniffling in too.

I haven't been able to push the images in the matchbox. Your figure stays in my head, ready to prevail whenever I'm out of the house alone, buying milk, saying hello to old passersby and seeing clouds in the sky or a freshly painted white wall. Coming in your room to wake you up in the morning. The whole room smells like you. And you're sleeping. Your hair's a mess and your covers are too. I can't push that back. It stays in the front of my brain. Right behind my eyes.

Did you know you tilt your head when you're talking to Black Star? Is that a habit from when you weren't as close and you tried to be polite when he was talking about his godliness? Is it mimicking Tsubaki because she's the only one who can deal with him? You never tilt your head when you're talking to me. You look me straight in the eye and I can't put that away either.

You're mostly made of sounds. I mostly treasure you in sounds. Sounds have nothing to do with the reason we're together and it's the only secret from you I keep. I'll tell you tomorrow. I'll tell you everything. Every little sound you made. Even the low hissing sound you make when we're thrown off a resonance. Or when Papa approaches and I take a step back.

You blow your nose and toss the tissue in the rubbish bin. You sigh and get up. You say you're going for a shower. I've become so obsessed with your voice, the way you pronounce words. Your piano playing sounds like you talking. You'd laugh and tell me I'm silly. You'd stop playing. But you'd still talk to me and smile at me and live with me.

I'm telling you everything tomorrow. You eat that Kishin soul, we return home, I put the 'what?' you say into my pocket for safekeeping till we reach my room, I pull you onto me and maybe whisper in your ear and ruffle your hair and we climb on the bed, sit across from each other, I put your last question mark in your, well my, matchbox, I open the lid wide and you hear all the things that made me your partner instead of your meister.

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A/N: I hope you liked my little drabble and thanks for reading it.

As always, reviews are very very welcome and appreciated and helpful and exciting to see in my inbox.

Have a good rest of the day!


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